Page 3 of What Doesn't Kill You…

“I have photos of him having clandestine meetings.”

Ronald held up the photos. “These? They’re unprintable. Just a bunch of out-of-focus blobs with so much pixelation it looks like it’s snowing—in June!” He tossed them back on the desk in disgust. “Face it, kid, you got nothing. And yeah,” he held up a hand to stop Max’s protest. “I was willing to run with it, to give you some leeway and see if you could pad this out some, but the owner disagrees with me. Poole and his lawyers are upstairs with him now, and they've made it clear that if the story runs, we'll all end up in court. He wants the story killed before that happens. It's time to let this go.” He pushed the file over the desk toward Max. “Write something else. You’ll get another chance to bring Poole down in the future.”

“Will I?” Max demanded as he scooped up the file. Fury and frustration were riding him so hard he could hear blood pounding through his veins.

Ronald sighed and leaned forward, belatedly noticing the mustard stain on the front of his shirt, and swatting at it with irritation before turning his attention back to Max. “You’re a talented reporter. You’ve got tenacity and skill. We both know you aren’t gonna leave this alone, but you have to face facts. You just don’t have the proof you need to run with a story like this. Not against a man who can afford the best legal team possible. Take a day, or two, go breathe in some fresh air or have a stack of pancakes. Pancakes fix everything. No matter what you do, take the time to calm the hell down. Then regroup and try again. But believe me when I tell you—this story is dead.”

Every muscle in Max’s body vibrated with tension as he jerked the office door open. It bounced off the flimsy partition wall, making it wobble. All eyes in the newsroom turned to him, most filled with understanding and sympathy, some with shock, because Max wasn't usually one to lose his temper. He didn’t want or need their empathy. He needed justice. After tossing the useless file on his desk, he grabbed his jacket and stalked from the room. Too wound up to wait for the elevator, Max ran down the stairs to the lobby.

And straight into the devil himself.

Damien Poole, flanked by his attorneys, strode out of the elevator as though he owned the world. Dressed in a suit that cost more than Max's apartment, he held his head high. The king looking down on his subjects. As if fated, his gaze stopped when it landed on Max and recognition registered. He cocked his blond head in acknowledgment and smirked smugly.

"Good try," he mouthed before dismissing Max entirely and striding out into the afternoon sun.

Max turned and punched the wall beside him. There were gasps as people gave him a wide berth. He barely registered their wary glances. Because his mind wasn’t on the reception area, it was on his small dorm room, years earlier. The place where he’d held his friend while she’d cried her eyes out and whispered about the horrors Damien Poole had inflicted on her. Max had wanted her to go to the cops, to swear out a formal complaint and humiliate the bastard in public—for all the things he’d done to her in private. But she wouldn’t do it.

“He’s too powerful,” she whispered. “Too rich. Nobody will believe me, and I don’t have the money to fight him.”

Instead, she’d let the attack eat at her, nibbling away until it consumed her whole.

And that was on Damien Poole.

"You're bleeding, Max." Arthur, one of the guards working desk duty came up beside him. "Let's go to the break room and get you cleaned up."

Max looked down at his bloody knuckles and felt nothing. His attention strayed to the street outside, where Damien was climbing into a waiting limo. The smug bastard was going to get away clean. Again. His jaw clenched as he watched the limo slip into traffic.

"Hey, Max," Arthur said stepping in front of him to block his view. "We need to get that hand seen to, buddy. You hear me?"

Max forced himself to look at the man. "What?"

"Your hand." He gestured toward it. "Looks like you're having a bad day. Come on, let's get you fixed up."

"Yeah, sure." Max let himself be led away from the curious onlookers.

"Did you lose out on a story or something?" Arthur asked, used to dealing with reporters, and aware that things could get emotional. "It's not like you to get physical. You're normally such an even-keeled guy. You must be having a bad day, son."

"Something like that," Max said as they went down the hall to the security staff's break room.

"Don't let it get to you." The guard shoved open the door. "Sometimes you win, sometimes you lose. Next time'll be better."

A surge of pure determination flooded Max's system. "Yes," he vowed. "It will."

CHAPTER ONE

Benson Security

Houston Office

"You want me to what?"

Violet Lee shot out of her chair and stared at her boss. Now she knew why she'd been hijacked before she could get into the main office area of the building. At first, Violet had thought she was in trouble again. Now she knew it was much worse.

"Sit down," Rochelle said in the calm voice she'd no doubt perfected during her time with the FBI.

Violet hated that voice. Nothing irritated her more than someone trying to talk her down.

"Please," Rochelle added, in a tone that said it was an order, not a request.